


Too Drunk to Fuck

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [22]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 704 OV, Alcohol, Community: het_challenge, F/M, Interspecies, Making Out, Partnership, Pre-Game(s), Vomiting, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-30
Updated: 2008-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:56:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Nono would titter to catch them so once more, wringing his hands at their reckless youth, their wastrel predilections, and so they hide these occasional liquid indulgences.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Drunk to Fuck

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Fran/Balthier, 'the bed is messy'.

Fran strokes over the slight arch of Balthier's abdomen, stroking lightly through his shuddering breaths and even shakier swallows. He sits on the edge of the bed, and she behind him. His vest is on the chair, and she has stripped off her sandals. The bed's sheets are barely ruffled behind them, their scent cold and faint, their activities so early interrupted. The curtains are drawn wide on the windows of their suite, better for hume eyes to see their surroundings. Balthier's hands are free if he should need them.

This is how it is always with them: Fran suffers in the morning, or late afternoon, while he in the night. Nono would titter to catch them so once more, wringing his hands at their reckless youth, their wastrel predilections, and so they hide these occasional liquid indulgences. Fran will attend him now, and later, Balthier will prevent the sun from finding her. They are partners.

His scent rises thick from his shirt collar, alluring spice and sweat. They went straight from the aerodrome to the saloon, thrumming on adrenalin, victory and most importantly, being paid. Balthier's breath is sour with too much alcohol, like her own, but she can smell Tchita pollen, the powder blow-back in his hair. Fran touches her nose to the nape of his neck and breathes.

He turns his head to look over his shoulder at her. Balthier's complexion is pale with more than moonlight, pained. She can see where his teeth bite his lips closed. His earrings glitter in the half-light. Fran has long held a weakness for hume ears, their tiny roundness, their succulent, tender flesh. She would not trust her teeth and lips around his flesh unless sober, and so she only licks, following the curved shell-edge with the tip of her tongue.

Balthier turns slowly further, from the waist not merely the neck. He has placed his arm along the arm Fran holds around his waist, his hand over her hand, moving together over his roiling belly. Fran licks, her tongue sliding faster, tracing labyrinthine whorls and valleys. Balthier's breaths are short pants, not nervous gasps. Fran presses her body tight behind him, the line of his turned arm trapped between her armoured breasts, presses her palm tighter. She feels the change before she smells it and knows what it means, before Balthier cries:

"Fran, no! Fuck--"

Balthier turns his head, turns his body away, but he is not quick enough, splashing not only the cuff of the sleeve unequal to stemming the tide from his lips, but also his lap, liquid overflowing to pool on the sheets, sinking, soaking through their borrowed bedding. The floor gains the worst of it, his final heaves not merely whisky soured by his stomach, but their fine dinner as well.

When Balthier says he is done, amongst invective and imprecations, Fran helps him draw the soiled shirt over his head. The wet linen parts against her eager nails.

"I begin to suspect someone wanted me naked."

Balthier's newly-sober fingers find the clasps of her armour easily, though his wet trousers are a greater struggle.

"We can afford new clothes."

"We can afford what they'll charge us for the bed and the floor," Balthier says, moving to lie beside her, his skin against her skin, under the sheets at the far side of the bed.

Supine, sleep rushes upon Fran like ocean waves; Balthier's fingers are long and agile. The bed is messy only along one edge, and there are hours still before the morning.


End file.
